


Puck, the Dionysia and Everything in Between

by atheartagentleman



Series: Distractions [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, warning for excessive fluff and inaccurate portrayal of flute-playing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-17 11:32:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheartagentleman/pseuds/atheartagentleman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These flute-offs are a semi-regular occurrence. Either Jehan or R will text the other with a time and a place, and sometimes a ‘bring your weapon’, and they will make music against and with one another until they collapse from exhaustion at their capers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puck, the Dionysia and Everything in Between

Enjolras can hear the music long before he reaches the front door of the apartment, and he smiles as he climbs the final few stairs (the lift broke two weeks ago, and the landlord is too cheap to do anything about it, though his profuse apologies are at least sincere) to the front door. It is ajar, waiting for him, which also explains why the music is so loud. He steps into the abortive little appendix of an entrance hall that opens directly into the main room of Grantaire’s tiny living-space. The clutter is unimaginable – books, half-finished paintings, the remnants of his foray into sculpture last month, boxes and more books, stacked in a haphazard labyrinth. It’s not that Grantaire is messy (though he is that too), it’s more that there are _a lot_ of things because Grantaire never throws anything out unless he’s feeling particularly blue, and even then he only throws out things he himself has made, never ones he was given by someone else. Nothing that comes from his friends is ever discarded.

Tonight, the towering – tottering – piles of accumulated _stuff_ are the setting for a fight to the death. Jehan and Grantaire prance, leap, twirl and crouch through the debris like unusually pretty goblins, aggressively playing the flute at one another. With their slight statures, wild dark curls and the flower-crowns which Jehan has nestled on each of them, they look like the final casting call for the role of Puck.

These flute-offs are a semi-regular occurrence. Either Jehan or R will text the other with a time and a place, and sometimes a ‘bring your weapon’, and they will make music against and with one another until they collapse from exhaustion at their capers. It should sound awful, because sometimes they neglect even to decide on a key before they begin, let alone time signatures or style, but they always click. They stumble a little at first, before settling into harmonies, and bounce off one another with alacrity. Their tunes are always rapturous, wild even, as they recreate the Dionysia among the concrete and the damp. (When either of them feels sad, they don’t dance, but curl up on the sofa, wrapped around one another, and play mournful fragments of tunes, sweet and short and full of longing, and smile ruefully. They’re still sad by the end of it, but it’s a better kind of sadness).

Today, they are not sad, but laugh as they play, and Enjolras laughs with them, watching from the doorway, his eyes warm with love.

‘Don’t kill each other!’ he reminds them as he makes his way to R’s tiny kitchen to start the coffee. It has been a long day, and he desperately needs a fix. The satyrs in the living-room will also be desperate for any kind of liquid by the time they’re done. Enjolras suppresses a grimace at that, and is grateful that Grantaire is trying to drink more coffee than alcohol these days, but post-Dionysia he is often more inclined to a Drink. Still, Enjolras starts a pot with enough coffee for three people, and fills the only unbroken jug with water for the both of them.

Soon enough, there is a crash, a loud yelp and then Jehan and Grantaire tumble into the kitchen, falling over one another like laughing puppies, red in the face, bright-eyed, still clutching their flutes and arguing loudly about who won. (They keep score, but the system is totally inscrutable to anyone but them).

‘You. Fell. Over. That _definitely_ means I won!’

‘Does not! Nowhere, nowhere I tell you, does it say that faceplanting affects the final score.’

‘How can it not? The rules are clear: play or lose. You can’t play when you’re becoming acquainted with the carpet!’

‘Hey, I resent that! I am very well acquainted with that carpet already!’ (Grantaire throws a wink at Enjolras, who flushes). ‘So you cannot tell me – ’

‘My point still stands, R! You fall, you lose!’

‘Fine! Be that way. I will go to my grave swearing that you put that book there on purpose to trip me.’

‘Oh please. It was e e cummings. Do you really think I’d subject it to your feet on purpose?’

‘I know you will stop at nothing to bring about my downfall, Prouvaire. Ooh, coffee!’

Grantaire pirouettes, distracted from his fight and plucks Enjolras’ mug from his fingers instead of pouring his own. Enjolras swats half-heartedly at him, and pours himself a fresh cup, conceding defeat. Jehan helps himself to a glass of water with a grateful smile, gulping it down in record time.

‘Yes, R, I am the master of all evil. Regardless of how that book got there – and my conscience is clear, my friend – you. Lose. End of story.’

Grantaire grumbles indistinctly for a while longer, but his head is resting on Enjolras’ shoulder, his sweaty curls and askew flowers tickling slightly, and his heart clearly isn’t in it. He capitulates gracelessly and Jehan crows in triumph, somehow finding the energy to execute one final victorious pas-de-chat and almost falling into the kitchen counter in the process.

‘One day, one of you is actually going to get hurt, and then you’ll have to explain how it happened to whoever is on duty in the ER, and I will just laugh at you.’ Enjolras is still smiling though, and everyone knows that he will never make any serious attempt to get them to stop. They are too beautiful and happy for that.

‘You are a cruel man, o darling of my heart.’

‘Consider it payment for the fact I’ll undoubtedly be the one stuck with getting you there.’

‘I’d like it to be set down for posterity that all of R’s injuries are self-inflicted.’ Jehan holds up his hands, the picture of innocence pre-emptively covering himself from Enjolras’ you-hurt-my-boyfriend wrath. ‘And now that this has been cleared up, I really must fly.’

Grantaire detaches himself from Enjolras (who makes the softest sound of protest) and moves to hug his duelling partner.

‘Goodbye then, little bird. I’ll see you on Friday?’

‘Friday,’ Jehan confirms as he slowly squeezes all the air out of Grantaire, until he is forced to break free with a splutter and a cough, fixing the poet turned imp with his darkest glare. The imp just laughs and dances out the front door, playing a trilling little tune and trailing imaginary children behind him.

Grantaire settles himself back into Enjolras’ side, sighing happily and sipping his stolen coffee as an arm snakes around his waist. They stand and drink in silence for a while, breathing in tandem and allowing the day’s stresses to seep out of them and evaporate in the half-darkness of the ill-lit kitchen. It is Grantaire who eventually pipes up.

‘I could eat. Shall we call Ponine?’

‘She texted earlier – she has plans.’

‘Plans or _Plans_?’

Enjolras shrugs and Grantaire pokes him in the ribs in punishment for jostling his head. ‘She didn’t say. The latter, I expect. Cooking is entirely beyond my capacities right now though – do we still have some of that lasagne in the freezer?’

There is an answering nod against his neck, but neither of them makes any move towards actually retrieving and reheating dinner. They will. Just not quite yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews, feedback, kudos etc make me a very happy bunny. Or just come say hi on Tumblr (at-heart-a-gentleman).
> 
> Special thanks to human-ithink for input and moral support.


End file.
